


Stars Around Your Scars

by xErised



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biker Harry Potter, Bikers, First Kiss, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hope, Journalist Draco Malfoy, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mutual Pining, Pansy Parkinson & Harry Potter Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, Tattoo Artist Harry Potter, Tattoo Artist Pansy Parkinson, Tattoos, past loss of parent(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/pseuds/xErised
Summary: I'll never look at you the same way again.Draco doesn't know if he's addressing that thought to his Dark Mark or Potter, who offers redemption in the form of ink, needles and late-night bike rides.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 253
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	Stars Around Your Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Dear H/D Erised Community, I hope that you enjoy the fic! My thanks to the mods, and also to M for her excellent and timely beta. The title of this fic is lyrics from Taylor Swift's "cardigan".

**

Frowning, Draco turns a dial on his Omnioculars to slow down the replay of last weekend’s Quidditch match between the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United. He locates Angus Campbell, twists another knob to zoom in on the Magpies Chaser and catches the stiff set of Campbell's shoulders and the grimace twisting his lips when he executes a sharp turn on his broomstick. 

Only thirty minutes into the game, and that was the eighth time that Campbell showed visible discomfort. 

Draco tracks the Chaser. After some time, he mutters, "Check Campbell's consumed drugs during scandal, recent Magpies’ scorecard, and performance of other players involved in scandal." In response, his floating Quick-Quotes Quill scratches his notes on a sheet of parchment. As Draco continues to re-watch the match, he rattles off more comments for the Quill, finally concluding with "Magpies' winning streak for League Cup affected?"

Exhaling, Draco lowers the Omnioculars. The bustling action of the game fades away, bringing him back to the present. Instead of the faint cheers of the crowd at the stands, reality is a distant humming of tattoo machines, the low tones of conversation and a familiar warm chuckle that makes Draco's heart beat just a little bit faster.

The twenty-six-year-old is squirreled away at the far corner of Skinshifters, a tattoo parlour at Horizont Alley—a quiet wizarding street a distance away from Diagon Alley. Draco plucks his quill and parchment from the air. Unlike the sensational embellishments painted by Rita Skeeter's quill, his quill is modified to record exactly what is said. He studies his notes. Scrawled upon it are leads that Draco—a Senior Quidditch Correspondent of _The Wizarding World News_ —will follow up for his next article. It appears that he must build on his old research regarding the explosive performance-enhancing drug scandal that he covered two years ago. He taps his wand on the parchment to shuffle his writings into a logical sequence of tasks.

With ink-stained fingers, Draco thumbs through a dossier of old newspaper clippings with moving photographs. Some are yellowed with age and crinkle under his fingertips, and he pauses at another one of his articles. It's another Quidditch scandal that he investigated three years ago—this time involving a ring of high-profile players that were caught embezzling funds from an orphanage that took in war orphans.

Draco keeps this story close to his heart because this was the first topic that Potter and he, reintroduced to each other by Pansy five years after the war, talked about. Potter cut through the awkward silence with a muttered compliment about the article, and Draco smirked into his glass of wine. _Well, a genuine compliment from Potter. That’s a first,_ he thought in dry amusement, arching a brow.

Draco pushes the dossier away, pulls his laptop towards him and retrieves a piece that he started writing last night. He skims the beginning and types out a new paragraph, relishing the busy taps of the keys under his fingertips. He learnt to work Muggle-style from Casey Smith, a Muggle-born colleague from the _New York Ghost_ —his first paper post-war. The first machine he used was clunky and slow, but over the years as Muggle technology evolved, laptops became sleeker and more functional (even though he uses it only for word processing). 

It took time for Draco to overcome his Muggle prejudices and become comfortable with such technology, but it was practically required, especially in the fast-paced, competitive world of journalism where a few minutes of tardiness would mean losing a potential scoop to a rival paper. 

When Potter first saw Draco on his laptop, he gave him an incredulous stare. Draco was too absorbed in his work to provide a proper response, so he simply shrugged in a matter-of-fact _"things change, I've changed"_ gesture. Mobile phones, televisions and computers were quite ingenious, and Draco is now used to crafting his articles on a keyboard rather than loading his quill every few minutes and tearing up his cluttered parchment riddled with mistakes. 

Electricity is almost another type of magic altogether. 

Time passes as Draco writes, hunched over the table, eyes fixed on the screen and fingers tapping on the keys. When a peal of laughter rings out from the outer area of the parlour, his train of thought veers off-course despite himself. He looks at the time. 

Perhaps he could indulge in some Potter-gazing. He does deserve a break, after all.

Draco straightens up and stretches his arms towards the ceiling, wincing at the creaking of his spine. He sneaks a glance towards Potter, who is seated a distance away and busy with a client. The large, white-framed windows cast squares of natural light into the shop, creating an open and relaxed atmosphere. Today's customer is a slender, young witch who can't be older than twenty, and she's getting marked on her left arm. It's either her first tattoo or she has a low pain threshold, judging by the furrowed brows and the tense grip of her right fist on the hem of her T-shirt.

The glide of Potter's tattoo machine across her skin pauses when he wipes away excess ink. He murmurs something—a colour, probably—and the floating circular tray of inks spins around, presenting the requested colour. He loads his machine and resumes the process. 

His lips parting in desire, Draco leans forward for a better view of Potter; the messy scrawl of black hair, the scruff growing along his jaw and the top of his neck, the curve of his back and the stretch of his T-shirt over his shoulder blades. Dark-blue jeans, ripped at the knees, and black biker boots with the nice buckles—Draco's favourite pair on him—rounds up today's outfit. 

Potter exudes calm and quiet confidence as he works. How would it feel to have that laser-light focus centred on Draco? How would it feel to have those capable hands stroking his hair, exploring his body and tracing his lips? Draco hasn't been touched like that before. 

He rests his hand on his left arm, rubbing his thumb on his skin, his fingers tingling with a need to touch. How would it feel to be tattooed by Potter?

Draco is jolted out of his thoughts when Potter tilts his head and catches his eye. Potter raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth hiking up into a grin as he puts down his tattoo machine. His cheeks heating up, Draco looks away at once and pretends to consider the bowls on the table behind Potter. There are brushes moving on their own, mixing pigments in the bowls. With a wave of Potter’s hand, the brushes stop stirring, allowing the bowls to fill the circular tray with fresh ink. 

The witch sits up in the reclining chair and studies the half-finished tattoo. She smiles, but she edges a sidelong glance at the tattoo machine. She murmurs something to Potter, who peels off a glove and fiddles with the nearby gramophone. Classical music starts to play, a trick to put nervous clients at ease. He flicks through different songs before choosing one that she likes. Potter nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continues working.

Draco casts a lingering gaze at him before getting up and heading to the small pantry to prepare two mugs of Earl Grey—Pansy's favourite. He leaves the pantry and walks to the other half of the shop. He stands in front of a heavy mahogany door with the words— _MUGGLE ROOM, NO MAGIC_ —etched on it. Underneath the words is a large post-it note— _ESPECIALLY YOU, MALFOY! Don't make me go to the Ministry again!_ —in Potter's handwriting stuck to the door. This special reminder was added because Draco once completely forgot that the clients on the other side of this door are Muggles. 

The Ministry Obliviator did find it rather amusing—the story of Draco accidentally whipping out his wand in front of a poor Muggle customer and performing a Summoning Charm, causing a few bottles of tattoo ink to come flying into the room when Pansy said with a sigh, "My inks are in the other room."

The Muggle promptly suffered a meltdown of sheer panic and disbelief, and the entire incident ended with an Obliviator rushing down to the shop post-haste and Potter muttering to himself as he filled up a lengthy Ministry form. 

Draco checks himself; the mugs of tea are clutched in his hands and not floating in the air, and his wand is tucked away in his pocket. He pushes the door with a shoulder and enters the room, to be greeted with the sight of Pansy tattooing the back of a half-naked client. The young Muggle man is plugged into his headphones, and he's lying chest-down on the reclining chair, facing away from Draco. 

Draco approaches Pansy, who looks up. "Tea," he whispers, placing the mugs on a table. 

"Thank you." Pansy gives him a grateful smile. 

The light catches on her silver hoop earrings when she turns back to her client. The ends of her short black bob graze her neck, and her new highlights are dark red. Unlike other tattoo artists, Pansy doesn't have tattoos littered all over her body. She has a few, and the most conspicuous one is on her right forearm; one that is imbued with meaning. It starts off as a chain of faded and withered pansy flowers, which leads into green winding stems that spell out the commencement date of her post-war apprenticeship with Dragonborn, a magical tattoo parlour in France. The stems trail off into small bouquets of vivid, pastel pansy flowers in full bloom. 

Draco leaves Pansy to her work and returns to his laptop, writing until the sunlight pouring through the windows deepens into dusk. A steady stream of customers enters the shop, but he hardly notices. He vaguely remembers Pansy giving him some coffee and a muffin. 

It's eight in the evening when everyone calls it a day. Draco packs up his things while Pansy and Potter close the shop. They put away the picture files of sample tattoos, water the plants, tidy the rows of premade inks and products including soothing aftercare lotions and pre-tattoo potions that reduce marks like cuts and scars. Some of these ointments were developed by Neville Longbottom. 

Draco is looking at a huge painting of Hogwarts Castle by Dean Thomas hanging on the wall near the till when the bell at the door tinkles, admitting Ron Weasley. He exchanges cordial nods with Draco and Pansy, and greets Potter warmly with an affectionate clap on the back. 

"Oh yeah," Potter pipes up, directing his words to Draco. "Ron can't make it to the Quidditch match this Saturday." 

Draco blinks in surprise. "Are you sure? It's Fitchburg Finches versus Falmouth Falcons, a big American-UK match. It's bound to be exciting." 

Weasley makes a strangled sound. He looks meaningfully at Potter, who elbows him in the stomach. "Yeah, I…" Weasley mutters, frowning at his friend. "I've got plans with Hermione. Er… book club. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Guess it's just us," Potter says to Draco, his voice low and warm with promise.

Draco's stomach flutters in anticipation. 

Pansy gestures to a bottle of water near Potter, and he tosses it at her. She pops the lid open and raises an eyebrow. "Book club? Don't tell me that Granger finally managed to infuse some semblance of culture in you after all these years," she says. Her lips curve into a bland smile, taking the barb out of her words. Before Weasley can muster a reply, her eyes swivel to Potter's outfit, observing his scuffed boots and the oil from his bike stained on the thighs of his jeans. "You'd think that with all those Galleons you have, Potter, you'd get some decent clothes."

"Doesn't affect how many customers we get."

"That's because the wizards and witches come here because of your scar, while I pull in the Muggles with my pretty face," Pansy quips, her voice fading briefly when she steps into the pantry to switch the lights off. 

"No wonder our Muggle clients have stopped coming back," Potter calls out, laughing when Pansy responds with a rude gesture. He pats her on the shoulder, and Draco looks away, his lips pursed. He steps back and crosses his arms in front of his chest, jealousy forming a sudden, bitter knot in the pit of his stomach. A long time ago, he wanted to be Potter's friend, but in multiple twists of fate, Pansy is the one whom Potter now shares easy banter with. But Draco hates how petty he feels, so he swiftly bats his envy aside. After all, their friendship—albeit rocky at first—has developed because they’ve set up shop and worked together for the past three years. 

Potter grabs his black leather jacket, and they exit Skinshifters. Weasley prattles on about dinner locations while they walk. Potter falls into step beside Draco and jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He opens his mouth to say something, but he hesitates, his breath hitching. 

"Yes?" Draco asks. 

Potter shakes his head. "Nothing. Looking forward to this Saturday’s game? Think you’ll have lots to write about for the paper."

At the mention of his job, Draco's heart dips at the reminder that he won't be staying in London for long. He'll miss Pansy, and he'll be lying if he said he wouldn't miss Potter. He's not sure what's brewing between them, with Potter's loaded smiles and the occasional flirtatious words. Sometimes, Potter acts as if he reciprocates Draco's affections, but the cynic in Draco sighs in resignation—people like Potter the Saviour aren’t interested in Death Eaters. 

Draco’s left arm clenches, and he moves it behind his back. 

He answers Potter with his predictions of the match, but in the back of his mind is this one thought: _I'm leaving soon, so I might as well spend as much time as I can with him._

* * *

"When are you going to tell him? All of this pining can’t be good for your heart, you know."

Draco’s mouth falls open in surprise. "What?" He lowers his cup of caramel macchiato to the coffee table. 

"Come on," Pansy says, exasperated. She spoons some sugar into her tea and stirs it rather aggressively, giving him a pointed look. "You were fifteen when you declared to me—" Pansy claps her hands, flutters her eyelashes and pitches her voice up an octave, "Potter is the biggest prat in the universe, but at least he looks alright." 

"I did not say that!" Draco insists at once, highly indignant. When Pansy tips her head to the side and fixes him with an intense stare, he backtracks. "Well… maybe. But I certainly didn’t sound like that."

They're seated on the floor of their flat, finishing breakfast. Draco stretches his legs on the carpet in the living room, his toes clenching inside his socks. "Why would I tell him anything?" He polishes off the last of his croissant and rubs his fingertips together to shake off the crumbs. "Simply because I’ve harboured feelings for him for longer than expected?" 

Draco thought he’d get over these Potter-related affections when he moved to America. He promised himself to stow away his longing for Potter, but all it took was a glance at him, five years after the war, for everything to come rushing back with a vengeance. He would never forget Potter’s nails digging into his skin as he yanked Draco’s wand out of his hand during the skirmish at the Manor. The memory of Potter saving him from the searing depths of the Fiendfyre is as all-consuming as the fire itself; the strong, vice-like grip of Potter's hand around his wrist, and the pounding of his heart as they hurtled on the broom towards safety and sanctuary. 

How would it feel for Potter to touch him again, after all these years? 

"No," Pansy says. "Because your interactions with him are so different now. You’re comfortable enough to go for Quidditch games and meals together. Alone, I might add. It’s as if you’re—"

"Friends?" Draco finishes, rubbing a brow with his thumb. "Certainly not friends like you and him, though," he adds, slight bitterness colouring his tone. 

"That’s an unfair comparison, and you know that," Pansy shoots back. "We started Skinshifters around four years ago, and it was difficult at first. We overcame our history, on top of butting heads about major things like shop location and minor things like leaving small Gryffindor and Slytherin decorations around. We finally compromised on Thomas’ Hogwarts painting. And you know all of this, because I ranted to you every step of the way, while you were in America!"

"Yes, that’s true." 

"You clearly want to be more than friends with him. All those casual questions about him when I started working with him. How you look at him so expectantly, act around him…" Pansy trails off. She looks as if she really wants to tell Draco something, but is holding back. "I keep your secrets. Always have, always will. But I've been your best friend for ages, and my advice is for you to tell him."

"But…" Draco bites the inside of his cheek, uncertain. "What if he doesn't fancy me back? I'll look ridiculous."

"At least you would’ve tried." Pansy looks at him for a moment, and then sighs and rolls her eyes. "Men are strange. And they call us women complicated."

Eager for a change of subject, Draco indicates the books on the coffee table. "How are magical tattoos coming along? Are you finally tattooing them on wizards?"

She tugs the top book— _One Hundred Useful Tattoos for Wizardfolk_ —from the stack and flips through it absently. Draco catches a glimpse of words— _tattoos for communication, protection and as keys; preserving magical tattoos on Squibs; everlasting tattoo charms_ —in the table of contents. 

There’s another book titled _A History: Magical Tattoos for Good and Bad._ Draco would bet that the Dark Mark would be featured in that book. 

"Not so much, since most of my clients are Muggles. Demand is low, although I've inked a few magical tattoos this year," Pansy says, closing the book. "I tattooed a witch some time ago, and she seemed interested in a glow-in-the-dark magical tattoo, but when I took my wand out, she changed her mind." Pansy scoffs. "Apparently people still aren't comfortable with me, a Dark Lord sympathiser, using magic around them." 

"That's a waste of your training with Dragonborn and other magical parlours." 

"I know." Pansy returns the book to the pile. "But there will come a time when I can practise my magical tattoos. Things are improving. Slowly, but surely," she says, rubbing her family ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. 

It took a long time after the War for Pansy to be able to wear that heirloom in public, and it was thanks to her partnership with Potter. 

Pansy wanted to open a tattoo parlour in London, but through Draco's work contacts, she learnt of Potter's plans to open one at a better location, one that she could never get with her reputation. She approached him with the idea of a partnership—she benefits because she enjoys the work, and her association with Potter would bolster the Parkinson reputation. Potter benefits because Pansy’s impressive portfolio includes magical tattoos—something he doesn’t offer—and she has useful connections to other European magical parlours. 

Even now, tattoos are still uncommon in wizarding London. That's why Skinshifters has two entrances and two main rooms—one for wizards and one for Muggles. Potter and Pansy bought over Flimflam's Lanterns because that location was the most strategic, giving access to Horizont Alley and a Muggle street. Of course, it was highly irregular for a shop to cater to both groups, so they had to obtain approval from the Ministry. Since it was Potter, the Ministry granted permission with minimal questions. 

"I'm leaving soon," Draco points out. "Not much sense in starting anything with anyone."

Pansy releases a heavy sigh. "I'll miss you." She curls her hand around his and squeezes once.

Draco glances down in surprise—Slytherins aren’t really the touchy sort. "Are you going all Gryffindor on me?" 

Pansy huffs and removes her hand, much to Draco’s amusement. He says with a smile, "Miss you too. We’ll keep in contact like always. Besides, it’s not the first time we’ll be in different countries." When Pansy lifts her shoulder in a shrug, his gaze wanders to her second tattoo.

It starts from the back of her neck; a sprinkling of snowflakes (it’s a magical tattoo so it's slightly brighter than normal) spiralling down to the top of her right shoulder blade. The winding snowflakes land on a tattoo of the Parkinson estate, its large windows stained with cobwebs and the grounds of the estate fading away into dense, vertical tree roots, a homage to the Parkinson legacy and history. 

Pansy leans back on the sofa and stretches her legs out, revealing her third tattoo. It’s a small dragon tattoo on the inside of her right ankle. The dragon is coloured in black, green and silver—the shades of the Malfoy family crest. Pansy got this tattoo when Draco told her that he was returning to the UK for his current stint with the _Wizarding World News_. 

Even though Draco loves Quidditch, he's keen to explore other types of journalism, especially International, and he’s hoping that his next posting will allow him to delve deeper into this new field. Journalism suits him, and he enjoys meeting people and building useful connections during events, interviews and networking meetings, but there’s something that makes it difficult for him sometimes—his Dark Mark. 

It's something that invites hesitant questions and wary looks. Draco hides it for work, but he can't keep wearing long-sleeved shirts and it’s a daily hassle to use concealer and Glamours. The Mark also brings with it a whirlwind of memories and swellings of guilt and sorrow, emotions that are a constant reminder.

"I plan to tattoo over my Dark Mark before I leave," Draco says. 

"Alright. I'm free next Tuesday morning." 

Draco sucks in a sharp breath and slowly releases it. "I… I would like Potter to tattoo me." 

"Oh," Pansy mutters, her smile wavering and her eyes wide with surprise. 

"I know it’s a shock, but…" Draco presses his lips together in a slight grimace, struggling to find the words. How can he explain that in his mind, it’s Potter, and not his best friend, that he wants as a tattoo artist? How can he articulate the significance of Potter being the one to turn this blemish into something blooming and beautiful? His shoulders sagging, he tries again, "He’s the—" 

Pansy raises a hand. "I understand. No need to explain." 

"You know me so well." Draco grins. "Would you like to help with the design?" 

"Of course. I reckon you can at least give me that." With a flick of her wand, Pansy sends their dishes away to the kitchen. She gathers some paper, and with a pencil at the ready, she fixes Draco with a level look. "What do you have in mind?"

* * *

"Fancy a ride?" 

Potter pulls on his fingerless gloves and winks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He drums his fingers on the seat of his trusty motorbike, which is parked outside the Muggle entrance of Skinshifters, as usual. His beloved bike clearly has seen better days; it’s scuffed, the leather of the seat is worn, the metal parts could do with a good polish, and it’s covered with travel stickers from all over the UK.

"Me?" Draco presses his palm on his chest. "Get on that?" He shifts his laptop case to his other hand, hesitating. He looks down at his attire—tidy shirt, pressed trousers and pointed loafers, and then at Potter’s faded leather jacket, black AC/DC T-shirt and ripped jeans. Coupled with his tousled black hair and dark stubble, Potter is a heady combination of scruffiness and danger. 

"Live a little. I’ve ended work and you spent the afternoon writing a tough article," Potter coaxes, leaning back on the bike and folding his arms across his chest. 

"How did you know it was a tricky piece?" 

Potter ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. "You were huffing a lot and typing so hard that I thought your keys would pop out. And you drank so much coffee. But that's not the point. C'mon, it’ll be fun." He shrugs and adds lightly, a tinge of challenge hardening his voice, "Unless you're too old for a joyride."

"Of course not!" Draco snaps, narrowing his eyes. "We’re the same age, and you know that." 

"Just saying." Potter taps his boot on the ground. "I could bring you to the Thames. I know you like that place, especially at night." 

"We could Apparate." 

Potter laughs. "Where’s the fun in that?" He mounts the bike, holding Draco’s gaze as he puts on his helmet. "Coming, old man? If not, I’ll wait for you there while you take a leisurely stroll. D’you need a walking cane?" 

Draco bristles. "Fine. I'll ride on your death-trap of a bike." 

"Brilliant." Potter beams, and he tosses a second helmet at Draco. Draco places his laptop inside the back compartment of the bike, which has an Extension Charm. 

"What safety features are there?" Draco asks, wearing his helmet and taking his place behind Potter.

Potter pretends to think. "Hold on tight. That’s about it." Even though his voice is muffled by the helmet, Draco can practically hear his smirk. Potter dislodges the kickstand, switches on the headlight and revs the engine. The bike jumps to life, and Draco shifts on the vibrating seat, ensuring that he has a firm grip on the leather. "First time? No fit blokes whisking you away with joyrides in America, charming you with their American accents?" Potter puts on a bad imitation of an American accent, and Draco chuckles.

"I prefer British men, thank you very much. Americans are too loud for me."

Potter twists his upper body around to slant a look at Draco. The tops of his cheeks rise—he must be grinning under his helmet. He mutters something that Draco can't catch. Before he can ask Potter to repeat it, Potter guns the engine. The bike surges forward, and Draco starts at the roar. His arms are suddenly wrapped around Potter’s waist as they rumble away from Skinshifters and merge into the main lanes, weaving in between cars and lorries. 

"Making yourself comfortable so quickly," Potter remarks.

"You did say to hold on tight."

When a car honks and Potter swerves to the left without warning, Draco yelps. A rush of wind glides across his skin when the car speeds past them, much too near for Draco’s liking. He smacks Potter on the arm. "Salazar, don't get us killed! I've got an article due tomorrow, you berk!" 

"This bike rides like a charm." Potter glances back, his eyes sparkling with a playful glint. "Speaking of charms, Arthur Weasley modified the bike. Improved invisibility and flying charms, that kinda thing." He pauses. "D'you wanna see the dragonfire shooting out from the exhaust?"

"No!" 

Potter only laughs and goes faster. 

As they speed on London's roads, Draco’s senses are bombarded with information. There’s the noise of the traffic, and his peripheral vision registers the Muggles strolling along the shops on this lovely Friday night. However, most of his concentration is focused on the man in front of him. His eyes travel from Potter's hair curling at the nape of his neck, down to the broad shoulders and sturdy back. Potter smells like vanilla, and Draco’s heart stutters when his abdominal muscles clench under Draco’s arms. 

It almost reminds him of Fiendfyre. 

They slow down when they approach a red light. "You've gone much faster on the Quidditch pitch," Potter says. 

"Yes, but I'm used to a broom and I was in control of things." 

Potter adjusts the glove on his right hand. "I'm in control now. Is that a bad thing?" He turns back and lifts his chin. "D'you trust me?" 

Draco swallows. He opens his mouth to speak, but what emerges is a croak instead. He’s transported to a faraway moment of Potter unexpectedly extending a hand—not of friendship, but for survival—towards him when Draco was marked for a fiery death, his nerves torn into tatters and whirling mind racing to catch up to the reality that Potter saved him, risking himself and his friends in the process.

A honk jolts Draco from his memories. 

He nods. "I trust you." 

Potter’s eyes widen, and he stares at Draco. He nods abruptly, and they resume their journey to the Thames. When the bike slows, the tension in Draco’s body uncoils, further eased by the glittering lights of downtown London and the familiar view of sleek skyscrapers against the backdrop of velvet night sky. Potter parks his bike, and they unfasten their helmets. "Told you it rides like a dream," he says, giving the bike an affectionate pat. 

They make their way to the river. Draco rests his elbows on the railing, a small and content smile forming on his lips as he soaks in the sprawling sights. The iconic Tower Bridge glimmers in all its resplendent glory, and the rippling surface of the river is rich with the reflected colours of the London Eye and other attractions. The gentle lapping of the waters along the riverbanks is soothing and calm, and Draco firmly shoves his upcoming article deadlines to the back of his mind. 

He darts a glance at Potter, but the other man’s attention isn't on the scenery. 

He's gazing at Draco, a curious frown knitting his brows, as if he's trying to figure something out. When their eyes meet, Potter looks away hurriedly. Draco clears his throat and gestures to his bike with a tilt of his head. "That's been with you for a long time."

"Yeah," Potter says, mirroring Draco’s stance by hunching and leaning on the railing. "It belonged to Sirius Black, my godfather. And Hagrid rode this bike to send me to the Muggle world when I was a baby." He sighs. "After the war, I left our world and spent two years biking around Muggle UK. Travelling, experiencing new things to forget about the old." He slants a look at Draco and whispers, "I think you'd understand." 

Draco lets out a mirthless laugh and agrees. After he was miraculously cleared of all wartime charges, considering his age and the death of his parents, he withdrew whatever assets he could from the vaults and fled to wizarding New York, where he managed to get a job at _The Wizard's Voice_. With no working and writing experience, Draco started from the bottom and got a taste of humble pie—getting coffee and food for the journalists, helping with the printing and delivering. It took some time before he got his first break—covering a Quidditch match when a correspondent fell ill.

He still doesn't know if Potter testified for him during the trials, ultimately sparing him from Azkaban. A part of him knows that now is not the right time to ask.

Potter continues, "After those two years, I returned to the magical world, but only to visit the Weasleys and friends, while I trained at Muggle tattoo places." He pulls a face. "Hated the media attention, but I made sure to do nothing remarkable." His smirk widens into a full-blown grin. "Nothing scandalous when I'm just buying milk at the shops or lazing about Grimmauld, especially when I didn’t meet everyone’s expectations by joining the Aurors. Think I’ve done enough fighting to last a lifetime."

"Pansy said that reporters skulked around Skinshifters when you first opened." 

Potter nods. "That can't be avoided, I suppose. Imagine their shock and horror when they discovered that I'm working with Pansy Parkinson." His upper lip curls in contempt. "All of those tabloids saying that she bewitched me into some dark, torrid romance and all that rubbish about tattooing, which wasn't popular then. Guess they suddenly forgot about their own drivel about my sexuality when they papped me going out with blokes. According to them, Pansy miraculously turned me straight, and I was _Witch Weekly’s_ most eligible bachelor again." He grins impishly. "Until I _accidentally_ got caught snogging my then-boyfriend in front of their headquarters." 

Despite the sudden jealousy, Draco snickers at the thought of Potter kissing a man in broad daylight just to prove a point. "I'm sure Pansy had a good laugh about that." 

"She did." Potter laughs, a sound as bright and happy as a shot of summer. Draco looks at him with longing, another piece of his heart falling into place. Potter stretches his arms out and flexes his fingers, and grey eyes swivel to the tattoo stretching from the back of his right hand to the inside of his elbow. He raises his arm to the light, and Draco squints at the faint scars covering the back of his hand. They look like words, but Potter covered them with a date. 

Potter points to the scars, a rough edge to his voice. "I must not tell lies. These are the words cut into my skin, courtesy of Umbridge's Blood Quill. Her lies can burn in hell along with her. I replaced her ugliness with a date, one that you should find familiar." 

It's the date of the Battle of Hogwarts. It is written in flowing cursive, and it leads to a trail of snow-white lilies that curve across his wrist and down the inside of his elbow, finally ending in these words— _the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_ —in black and elegant script. 

"The words on my parents' tombstone," Potter murmurs. 

"Oh." Draco’s gaze lingers on the date. "What other tattoos do you have? I've only seen this one." 

Potter looks around; it's quiet except for a few people milling about a distance away. Before Draco can comprehend it, Potter turns around and impulsively shrugs off his jacket and T-shirt, using them to cover his chest. Draco rears back at the exposed sight—he should be eyeing up Potter's body, but he gasps at the tale of tattoos on his back. 

There’s a dark, foreboding scene of a forest in haunting shades of dark blue, black and brown covering Potter's left shoulder blade. The moon is partly hidden behind grey scraps of cloud, weakly illuminating gloomy trees burdened with thin, ominous vines. Their branches remind Draco of skeletal fingers. 

At the forest’s edge on the lower right side of the tattoo, there are three pairs of footprints placed side by side. The tattoo of the footprints is tiny. The feet cross the width of Potter's back, leading to a second landscape tattoo near Potter's right hip.

It’s Hogwarts. 

Not the entire castle is tattooed, of course, but the turrets are well-reproduced, and the façade is distinctive enough. The sky is a carefree blue, the turrets coloured in their usual slate-grey and the buildings beige and brown. At the corner of the tattoo is a small stretch of the Quidditch pitch, complete with a hoop. 

Draco suddenly feels homesick.

Potter reaches behind him and taps on the forest tattoo. "The Forbidden Forest, where I died." He gestures to the Hogwarts tattoo with another hand. "Hogwarts, where I felt the most alive." He indicates the footprints. "And the two people that stayed with me, no matter what. They spent the earlier part of their lives saving mine." He chuckles. "Hermione cried when I showed her this tattoo, and even Ron got a little choked up." 

"It’s beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me." 

Potter puts on his clothes. "I have another one on my thigh. I don't mind showing it to you, but I… er… don’t want to strip in public." He eyes Draco up and mutters, "Wouldn't mind stripping for you in private though." 

Draco stares, a feverish warmth engulfing his cheeks. "What? What did you just say?" 

"Nothing!" Potter says breezily, flapping a hand in the air. "I didn’t say anything, you must have misheard."

Draco frowns at him for a moment, before he’s reminded of something he’s always wanted to ask. "Why did you get into tattooing?"

"Hmm." Potter pauses, marshalling his thoughts. "I first saw a parlour in Muggle London. I didn't plan on getting one, I was just curious. Before I knew it, I was telling the artist what I wanted. After this first one," he indicates the tattoo on his right arm, "One tattoo became another…" He shrugs.

 _You're not answering my question._ Draco waits expectantly. 

"But that's not what you're asking. You're asking why I became an artist." 

"Yes."

Potter worries his lower lip, his forehead wrinkling. "After I got all my tattoos, I became interested in it as a career. I did a short design and art course in a school outside of the UK and trained under a few Muggle tattooists." He rubs his chin and gazes at the swirling waters beneath them, his voice soft and faraway. "I guess I… tattoo because of their stories. The happy life experiences of marriages and births, meaningful coming-of-age tattoos, and the regret of a cover-up tattoo after a break-up. Some tattoos express their individuality, a set of lyrics or a life motto." Potter looks at his empty hands, his stare distant. "But those that I remember are the stories of loss. The grief when a loved one dies, and you can never get them back again."

Potter lifts his gaze, the glitter of Tower Bridge reflecting on his glasses. "When I tattoo someone, I'm so focused on their stories that I forget about my own loss. I'm in their world, on their body, my artwork on their skin." He touches his chest. "Knowing that so many people out there were dealing with their own sadness and grief made me feel less alone. Helped me to cope. I've tattooed so many people, and that's how I learned that scars…" He clenches his right hand into a fist, throwing the words into sharper relief. "Scars are part of our past, something that we can't hide or deny. But the past doesn't own our future." He squares his shoulders and sighs, a sound brimming with feeling. "It took a long time for me to get to where I am now." 

Draco gives his left arm a light squeeze. Although he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, he knows very well what lurks on his skin. He licks his dry lips, his voice a bit too shaky for his liking. "Do you… have many clients who cover their scars?" 

Potter looks at him intently. "Yeah." 

"Oh." 

A sense of expectation thrums in the air, but Draco pulls away from their gaze. Minutes pass in companionable silence as they enjoy the view, accompanied by the background sounds of other people and the river.

 _Scars are part of our past. They don't own our future._ Potter's words play in a loop in Draco's mind, gradually eroding whatever shred of uncertainty that still remains. 

His eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, Draco says, "Potter." 

"Yeah?" 

Draco tilts his body towards the other man, finally looking at him head-on. "I want you to tattoo over my Dark Mark. Next week, perhaps?"

Potter’s breath hitches. "Why me?" 

Draco glances at the date of the Battle of Hogwarts on Potter’s hand. It spelt the conclusion of a war that affected them so profoundly and deeply. Not that it didn't affect Pansy, of course, but not to the extent that she had to flee to the Muggle world or away from wizarding Europe. 

"Because… I trust you," Draco whispers.

Potter stares at him for a long moment, and then lowers his head in a slow nod. "Okay." He nods again. "Yeah, okay," he repeats, as if wrapping his mind around Draco’s request. "Have you thought of a design yet?" 

"Yes. Pansy helped me." Draco smiles, trying to lighten the mood. "She's already not my artist. To have her not be involved with the design? She'll skin me alive." 

Potter chuckles. "Sounds about right." He pauses. "She told me you're leaving London for work soon. Are you coming back?" 

"I don't know," Draco says honestly. "It depends on the location and length of my posting, and if I like it enough to stay there." 

"You said you prefer British men. The last time I checked, you can only get them in Britain." Potter shrugs and fiddles with his earring—a single black stud—on his left earlobe. 

Draco lets out an unexpected bubble of laughter at the randomness of his comment. "I'll keep that in mind." 

"I mean… I'd like it if you came back." Potter gives Draco a meaningful look. "I'd definitely like it if you returned." 

_Oh._ Draco exhales, his stomach clenching and his heart beating in double-quick time at the simmering intensity in Potter’s gaze. He regards Potter under half-lidded eyes, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I'll definitely keep that in mind, then." 

Potter's lips turn up into a slow smile of satisfaction.

* * *

It's after hours at Skinshifters.

Draco shifts on the reclining chair, making himself comfortable as Potter mixes the inks. His left arm is resting palm-up on a cushioned table. He gazes at the delta of blue-purple veins threading under his wrist, then down to the Dark Mark; the hollows of the skull that stare back at him defiantly, and the snarled, fanged jaw of the viper. For ten years it has kept him company, reminding him of the lowest point in his life and the worst of himself.

It’s the first thing he sees in the morning, and the last thing he sees at night. 

But there's something new now. Pressed on top of the Mark is a revised stencil of the tattoo that Potter will ink on him. Earlier, Pansy gave Potter their original design. With Draco's input, Potter modified it by shifting some elements and resizing it for a better fit.

Draco looks up when Potter approaches, his tray of inks floating in the air behind him. He sits down on a wheelie chair and arranges his tattooing paraphernalia—tattoo machines, alcohol wipes, ointments, plastic wrap and other inks—on the table. He pulls on surgical gloves and asks Draco, "How are you feeling?"

Draco draws in a breath and releases it slowly, wondering how to translate this buzz of emotions—anticipation, nervousness, uncertainty, shame—into mere words. His eyes flicker to the Mark. 

_I'll never look at you the same way again._

"Glad for a change, I reckon," Draco says, settling on a more neutral reply. 

Potter peels off the stencil. "Okay. I'm going to clean the area now." He does so, using the wipes and a spell. "D’you want numbing cream?" 

Draco shakes his head. "Whatever pain or discomfort your tattoo would cause would be much less than what the Dark Lord inflicted when he burned the Mark on me."

Potter’s Adam’s apple bobs as he stares at him. He visibly relaxes when he realises that Draco meant it as a display of wry amusement. "Sure, compare me to Voldemort, will you?" Potter says, looking at the Mark. He studies it for a moment, his shoulders slumping and his eyes dimming. 

What is he thinking about? The Dark Lord? Or the Mark staining the sky, mocking the mourners, after the Dark Lord had taken yet another life? Is he… thinking of how Draco used to be? 

"Potter," Draco whispers, shaking him out of his thoughts. 

Potter blinks rapidly, recovering his equilibrium. "Right." He exhales, flashing a stiff smile. "I’m going to start on the line work." He loads the tattoo machine with ink and begins to trace the outline of the tattoo. 

At his warm touch, a shiver ripples through Draco. Potter's fingertips press on his skin, leaving faint marks that vanish as fast as they arrived. Instead of looking at the tattoo, Draco is transfixed by the sight of Potter’s hands on him. 

_He’s touching me. He’s actually touching me._

Draco gulps, a flush creeping across his cheeks. He’s suddenly very aware of Potter’s entire attention on him. He clenches the fingers of his left hand, his body tensing and his toes curling. 

Alarmed, Potter stops. "Alright? Is there still residual magic in the Mark?" 

"No. The magic died when he did." The precise lines of fresh black ink are a stark contrast to his pale skin. "It feels prickly. Like the scratching of tiny needles." 

"Yeah. It usually hurts the most at the start, and then you’ll adjust."

Draco nods, and the metallic drill of the tattoo machine resumes. The needle, paired with Potter's touch, drags against his skin. With a soft and admiring gaze, he looks at Potter's delicate lashes fluttering, his defined jaw and his teeth tugging on his lower lip in concentration. 

"Shading and colouring next." Potter changes inks. "I'll have to go over some areas more than once to get good colours. Tell me if you need a break."

The discomfort is more apparent now, stinging occasionally, but Draco can handle it. However, when Potter tattoos over the top of the skull, he winces in pain, squeezing an eye shut. This sensation reminds him of his Dark Mark ceremony. 

It was nightfall at the drawing room of the Manor, the curtains rustling in the breeze and pale moonlight spilling across the floor. Draco was kneeling in front of the Dark Lord, who was twirling his wand and eyeing him with undisguised glee. In the audience were his parents, along with a few Death Eaters. Panic, fear and doubt raged in his bloodstream like an inferno—not because he was afraid of the Marking process, but with this Mark burned on him, it was irrefutable proof that he served the Dark Lord. Should Potter emerge victorious, Draco would have to face the consequences of his actions—Azkaban. 

Still, he took the Mark because of his family, to uphold the Malfoy name and reputation. Beneath the flood of anxiety, there were flickers of pride—it was difficult to erase years of prejudice and misplaced loyalty. 

Draco bowed and offered his left arm, raising it and willing it not to tremble. He rearranged his features into a smooth, expressionless mask of deference. _"It is an honour—both for my family and I—to prove my undying loyalty to you, my Lord."_

Later that night, his parents entered his room, their faces pale and worried. 

He'll never forget the heart-breaking sounds of his mother’s sobs.

Now, at the sight of the Mark, he won't recall that scene in the Manor anymore. Instead, he'll think of tonight; of Potter's touch, crooked smile and his enduring artwork on his skin. He’ll remember Potter wiping away excess ink and rolling backwards on his chair to study the tattoo from another angle, before hunching over Draco’s arm again. 

Draco will think of Potter whenever he looks at the Mark. 

Draco lets his gaze drift around the shop, wanting to keep the reveal for later when the tattoo is finished. There’s the floating tray, spinning around when Potter asks for a different colour, and some scattered knick-knacks that remind Potter and Pansy about their friends—a string of radish-shaped fairy lights wound around the counter, threading through a photograph of Luna Lovegood and the Gryffindors at the Fountain of Fair Fortune, a nearby wizarding pub. Hanging on a wall is a map of Europe with golden stars tacked on the countries that Pansy has visited—it’s hand-drawn by Millicent Bulstrode, who creates beautiful maps for a living. 

Draco indicates the gramophone with his chin. "Do you play it often for clients?" 

"Sometimes, yeah," Potter replies, the needle continuing its relentless drag. "Wizards aren't really used to needles, compared to Muggles." A corner of his lips hikes up in a grin. "I might have killed Voldemort, but that doesn't mean people trust me completely when I'm going to pierce their skin with a noisy machine."

After a while, Potter lowers his equipment and considers his handiwork. He cradles Draco's arm with his palms and tips his head to the side to regard the tattoo from a fresh angle. He passes an alcohol wipe over Draco's skin, pops open a bottle and spreads a clear ointment on Draco’s arm. Next, he unrolls a transparent protective dressing over the fresh tattoo. He thrusts two vials of potion into Draco's hands, launching into aftercare instructions, but his words fade as Draco stares at his Mark with brand new eyes. 

Potter has breathed life into Pansy and Draco's design. The harsh, unforgiving darkness of the Mark is rejuvenated with a vibrant firework of colours. Inside the snake's coiling, sinuous body, Potter has tattooed a winding chain of green and silver narcissus flowers—colours of the Malfoy crest—although the flowers surrounding the Dark Mark are in shades of white, light yellow and pale pink, these delicate colours a pleasing balance to the deeper green. Instead of the two hollow sockets in the skull, there are now two golden Snitches, their white wings spread in flight. At the bottom of the tattoo, nestled between daffodils and narcissus flowers, lie a smaller row of pansies, the colours of these pansies matching Pansy's tattoo. 

She teared up when Draco added that in the design. 

He swallows thickly, emotion lodged in his throat. His tattoo is like a garden—a blooming spring garden brimming with growth, renewal and hope. He no longer feels the dull thud of self-loathing and pressing regret; instead, he's reminded of the reason why he subjected himself to the Mark.

Family. 

He's transported to the carefree, happy times when Father taught him flying in the vast meadows of the Manor, pride and joy shining in his eyes when Draco caught his first Snitch. 

Love. 

And of Mother, the wonderful and delicious scent of baking filling the kitchen whenever she made his favourite chocolate scones to celebrate his return from Hogwarts. 

"Thank you," Draco whispers, his voice brittle, his eyes glowing and his heart full of gratitude. His entire body relaxes, releasing tension that feels like it’s been coiled up inside for years. "Thank you." 

Potter smiles. "I'm glad you like it," he murmurs. He removes his gloves and turns around to pack up. 

Draco drops his left arm, leaving it dangling limply at his side. He casts a look at Potter's back. For years, the other man has always had an unwavering presence in his mind, and more recently, on his heart.

Now he has left his mark on Draco’s skin. 

The fact that it is Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, that covered over his Dark Mark, doesn't escape Draco. 

This is as close to redemption as he can possibly get. 

The thought of leaving London, leaving Potter after they've reconnected, is entirely unbearable. There will be time later tonight when Draco will lie in bed alone and gaze longingly at Potter's tattoo, but for now, he desperately needs his touch again. 

He needs Potter close to him.

"Harry," Draco whispers, overcome with emotion. Potter's given name feels strange and clunky on his tongue, but maybe, just maybe, he'll have many chances to get used to saying it. 

Potter goes very still. He slowly turns his head to face Draco, his eyes round with surprise.

There's a clatter and a thump when Draco kicks over a table in his haste to reach the other man. Before his brain can catch up, he yanks Potter towards him and captures him in the circle of his arms.

Astonished green eyes stare back at him. 

"Before I go. Just this once. Please," Draco murmurs, his heart beating rapidly like a flustered Golden Snidget. And then he closes his eyes, tilts his head and leans in, pressing his lips gently on Potter's. 

"Wait, wait!" Potter withdraws, and Draco's heart sinks to his shoes. His chin dips in embarrassment, and he shuffles back, but Potter holds him tight. "Are you doing this because I tattooed you, and you’re emotional? Because I don't want this to be something you’ll regret—" 

"No! I fancy you, but I don’t know if you feel the same!" 

"Really?" Potter’s words spill out in a rush. "I told Pansy to keep quiet about my feelings for you, hoping she would tell you anyway because we both know she's the queen of gossip, but she kept her promise—" 

_He likes me. Harry Potter likes me._

"Merlin, Harry. Shut up," Draco says fondly, delight and happiness soaring in his heart. "Shut up and kiss me." 

This time, their kiss is certain and confident. Draco's lips part at once for Potter to deepen the kiss. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Draco, his fingers threading through blond strands. Potter's stubble scratches against Draco's cheeks, and Draco skims his palms over Potter's broad chest, a moan escaping his lips. All that time admiring from afar, and now he can finally touch. He winds his arms around Potter's shoulders and squeezes, grinning into the kiss when Potter grunts and hauls him closer. 

_Don't stop touching me._

Maybe Draco said that out loud, because Potter murmurs, _"Never,"_ against his lips, the depth and intensity of their kiss stealing Draco's breath and warming every part of him. The heat throbbing between their bodies comes to a crescendo when Potter pushes Draco up against the table. The tray of inks crashes to the floor when Draco whips an arm out for balance. 

But they take no notice, too consumed in their desire. Draco's synapses are firing, imprinting this moment in his memory, bottling it up and storing it away in the chambers of his heart. Potter’s vanilla scent, the table edge scraping against the back of his thighs, Potter's hands roaming all over his body… 

The kiss is everything that Draco’s ever dreamt of.

They pull apart after what feels like forever, their chests heaving and breaths heavy with desire.

Draco’s gaze lands on Potter's chest, where the top few buttons of his shirt have come undone. There's another tattoo over his heart, and it appears to cover up a red, oval-shaped scar. There's a Snitch inked over the scar. "What is this?" Draco asks. 

Potter smiles, something endearing and shy which makes Draco's heart pirouette in joy. "That's a story for another time, after you get to know me better." He traces the Cupid's bow of Draco's upper lip with a thumb, his whisper as intimate as the rustling of sheets. "We'll have loads of chances for that, yeah?" 

Draco matches his smile. He laces his fingers with Potter's, bringing the other man's hand up to his lips and dropping a kiss on the inside of his wrist.

"Yes, we will."

* * *

Draco stares at the blinking cursor. He types out a few words half-heartedly, frowns and then deletes them. The unfinished paragraph reads like absolute rubbish, to be honest. With mounting resignation, he sighs and deletes the entire paragraph. 

Recently, his concentration has been shot to pieces. Once again, his gaze wanders to his tattoo, and he smiles. He could be doing mundane things such as brushing his teeth or making tea, and his mind would scamper away to memories of his first kiss with Potter. 

When he returned home after that fateful night at Skinshifters a week ago, Pansy was clearly waiting for him, judging by how she tossed her magazine away at once, turned around and glanced at his left arm the minute he stepped inside.

"It's good." She nodded in approval, before a slow smile grew on her lips at the sight of the dopey grin on Draco's face, dazed grey eyes and the blooming love-bites scattered on his neck. "About time." She patted the empty space on the sofa beside her. "C’mon, tell me the dirty details."

The door to Skinshifters opens, revealing Potter. The hood of his jumper covers his mop of hair and his hands are shielding something from the drizzle outside. He shrugs the hood off, runs a hand through his hair and walks to Draco, who perks up when he notices that Potter comes bearing coffee from Magnolia's, his favourite cafe a few streets away. 

"Hey," Potter greets. "Need a pick-me-up?" He offers the coffee to Draco. "Hope this'll help with your writing." 

"Thanks." Draco inhales the revitalising scent of coffee, his lifeline when stuck in a rut over an article. He sips on the beverage, then calls out Potter's name when the other man moves away. "I just got my posting. I leave for the US in two weeks." 

Potter turns back. "Oh." He nibbles on his lower lip. "For how long?" 

"Two years." Draco isn't surprised at the location considering his connections to a few papers in America. But it’s still disappointing, knowing that he'll be away from Potter for so long, right after they've started something. 

"Two years?" Potter’s shoulders slump. "That's long. And far away, too. I was hoping you'd still be in the UK."

A knot of worry starts to build in the pit of Draco's stomach at Potter’s hesitance. "When I leave…" He tapers off in uncertainty, pursing his lips. He vaguely gestures at the space between them. "Will we…" He looks away, his voice strained. 

Potter hurries to his side at once, his jaw set in determination and his words steady and sure. "You've changed. When Pansy and I started working together, she told me things about you that I didn’t believe. Holding down a proper job, working your way up the paper's ranks, going Muggle." He gestures to Draco’s laptop. "The Draco Malfoy I knew was a snotty, spoilt bully that hated everything Muggle." Something softens in his eyes. "I read your articles, and when you returned to London months ago and I met you again, it was just…" He trails off and rubs the back of his neck. "You’re different now. Not completely different, but I really want to know you better." Potter shrugs and raises his arms, his palms facing Draco. "There’s lots of history to deal with, and it won't be easy, being apart, but I want to try," he says, hope gleaming in his wide eyes and a soft smile playing on his lips. 

Potter's gaze flickers to the nearby pantry. He pitches his voice a notch louder, directing his words there. "And it's the US, just across the pond. I could come and visit, have Pansy take care of our customers. I'm sure she wouldn't mind!" he finishes, declaring the last few words in a loud and obnoxious tone towards Pansy, who is clearly eavesdropping. Come to think of it, she has been loitering in the pantry, taking a particularly long time to make her tea. 

"Of course, Harry!" Pansy shoots back without missing a beat, emphasising his name. "Would hate to stand in the way of true love!" she trills, equally obnoxiously. 

Potter waits for her to leave the pantry before continuing. "What d'you think?" he asks Draco, bright and earnest green eyes peering out from a fringe of tousled hair. "D'you want to try it long-distance? See how it goes?" 

Draco takes a deep breath, his heart expanding with joy and his eyes sparkling. "Someone told me that we can't hide or outrun our past," he says, quoting Potter's own words to him during that night at the Thames. "It took me a long time to understand that too." He glances at the tattoo on the back of Potter's right hand—the date of the Battle of Hogwarts.

It was the most tumultuous period of their lives; a war that boys like them shouldn’t have been involved in. It was a time when they fought from opposing ends. Yet, here they are now, standing in a tattoo parlour and talking about some semblance of a future together. 

"He said the past doesn't depict our future, which is ours to make of. So yes, I'd very much like to try, to see where the present leads us to." 

Potter beams, a radiant smile that tugs on Draco's heartstrings. "Brilliant. Then we'll have to make our time here count."

* * *

_New York City, USA_

It's certainly fancy here, but Draco would give anything to be with Potter right now. 

Sighing, he stretches in this luxurious bed in the expansive hotel room, his limbs splayed out like a basking starfish. The sheets are crisp, the bed soft, and the balcony offers a panoramic view of magical New York. The most distinctive and tallest building in the horizon is the sleek headquarters of the _New York Ghost_. Draco’s flat in New York will be ready in a few days, and it was generous of his paper to temporarily put him up in this posh hotel. Tomorrow he will reconnect with a few contacts over meals, but tonight, he's alone. 

His heart thudding with longing, Draco turns to look at the evening sky. _What are you doing now?_ It's almost midnight in London on a Friday night, and Potter could be home, or out with his friends, or maybe even with another bloke— 

Frowning, Draco shakes his head hard, erasing the unwelcome image of Potter kissing someone else. He reminds himself that insecurity has no place in his relationship with Potter. He lifts his left arm, smiling at his tattoo; Potter's mark on him. _"You can look at it whenever you miss me."_ Those were Potter’s last words when he sent Draco off at Portkey Central yesterday. 

_This means I'll be looking at it every single day then._ Draco traces the flowers on his skin, and then closes his eyes, summoning their kiss at Skinshifters—of Potter's lingering touch, dreamy green eyes, his urgent tug on Draco’s clothes and the pressure of his lips on Draco’s—memories that Draco keeps squirrelled away in the jewel box of his heart. 

Speaking of tattoos, he saw Potter's last tattoo on his left thigh. It was of four animals—a large stag with impressive antlers, a black dog, a phoenix with a vibrant plumage and a snowy owl with stretched wings and a penetrating gaze. Draco knew they were Hedwig and Fawkes, Dumbledore's pet, and Potter told him that the stag and the dog represented his father and godfather. 

Well, Draco also saw other things too, not just Potter’s thigh tattoo. His lips curve up into a slow, wicked grin as he remembers the happenings of the past two weeks—of them tumbling into bed together, leaving a trail of discarded clothes snaking from Potter's front door to his bedroom. Sexual tension crackled in the air as Potter stroked Draco in places where no one has ever touched before, triggering starbursts of pleasure sparking across Draco’s skin. 

Even though he misses Potter greatly, at least he has the memory of their first time together to keep him warm.

Draco flings an arm out on the bed to fumble around for his phone. He opens his messages; the last text from Potter was sent when Draco was still in London. Draco taps his fingertip on the side of his phone, hesitating. Eventually, he types a message, aiming for something casual and breezy. Before he sends it, he reconsiders. Potter might be asleep, so perhaps he should text tomorrow morning? Yes, that's a better idea. He's about to close the message screen, when his phone buzzes with a text.

It's from Potter. 

_"Hey."_

Pleasantly surprised, Draco grins. He quickly types a reply, but Potter sends another text. 

_"Thinking of you. Have you settled down alright?"_

Draco replies in the affirmative. _"Thinking of you too. How was your day?"_

Potter's response arrives in seconds. Draco dims the lights, plumps up his pillow and pulls the duvet up to his chest. His cheek sinks into the soft pillow as they exchange rapid-fire texts. 

The lines of moonlight on the sheets shift, and the sounds of traffic subside as the night deepens. 

Draco falls asleep with his phone in his hand and a smile on his face.

* * *

_Two years later at Portkey Central, London_

In his hurry to exit the departure area, Draco accidentally nudges the wheels of his luggage against the ankle of a witch. Normally he'd turn around to apologise, but his tunnel vision recognises only Harry and Pansy a short distance away. He last saw them around three months ago, when he returned briefly to interview a source and exchange intelligence with a London paper before rushing back to Los Angeles.

Draco strides towards them, tuning out the usual organised chaos of bustling Portkey Central and narrowly dodging a child chasing after a bouncing ball. He greets Pansy with a hug. According to her, after he got together with Harry, he's become more physically affectionate, a change that Harry found highly amusing. 

The moment Draco withdraws from Pansy's arms, Harry engulfs him in an embrace so strong that he staggers back. Draco laughs and noses into Harry’s neck, inhaling his vanilla scent and discreetly pinching himself to ensure that this isn’t a dream. Harry's lips graze his jawline, ending in a kiss. "You're finally home," he whispers before releasing him.

Grey eyes roam all over Harry, observing the changes. There are two piercings on his left ear now, instead of one. His dress sense has improved too (a side-effect of going out with Draco); he no longer dresses like he's fleeing from a burning building. He’s wearing well-fitting jeans and the dark-brown leather jacket that Draco bought for him. Draco squints at Harry's biceps under his black T-shirt; it appears that he's bulked up a bit, and Draco licks his lips inadvertently. But many things remain the same—the endearing messy hair, old-fashioned glasses and sparkling green eyes that crinkle into a warm, welcoming beam of elation. 

They walk out of Portkey Central, with Draco sandwiched between Harry and Pansy. Harry playfully bumps his shoulder against Draco's. "Did any American blokes on motorbikes take you out for a ride?" 

Draco snickers. "Of course not. Only want you to give me a ride." 

Harry angles a look at him, his eyes dark with desire at the double entendre. As if he can't wait another second longer, he grabs Draco's hand and tugs him closer. 

Yes, the last two years have been painstakingly difficult; erupting in occasional fiery fights and punctuated with angry texts and phone calls. Yes, there were times when they gave each other the cold shoulder, but there were also moments that Draco keeps very close to his heart—cherishing each other’s mailed gifts, the bubbling excitement in his chest the night before either one of them came to visit, and the many surprise trips. Their separation only made them treasure their time together even more. 

There's something different about both men now, too. On their clasped hands, on the insides of their wrists—Draco's right and Harry's left—are matching tattoos of a motorbike speed meter. This tattoo reminds Draco of their exhilarating joyrides—both in the UK and the US. Even though he has fond memories of each occasion, his favourite one is still their very first ride to the Thames.

The needle on Harry's speed meter tattoo indicates a higher speed than Draco's, which is rather fitting based on their personalities and attitudes towards relationships (Harry was the one who said "I love you" first).

Draco smiles to himself at the prospect of exploring new places with Harry on his bike. His grin widens when he touches his wallet inside his pocket, which contains his brand-new biking licence.

Looks like he'll be the one giving Harry a ride next.

**/fin**

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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